


The New Watch

by scum_egg



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: AU, AU: Talon successful at Recall, Blackwatch, F/F, F/M, Maybe McBra, POV Junkrat, POV Pharah, POV Sombra, Pharmercy, Series, Slow Burn, Winston dies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-11 19:05:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9003694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scum_egg/pseuds/scum_egg
Summary: “You guys looking for some superheroes, ay? Thought they were closed down 'cause of that Blackwatch stuff.”Instead of fighting off Talon mercenaries in 'Recall', Winston is killed, and his data is stolen. Tracer is implicated in the murder of Tekhatta Mondatta after 'Alive', and is nowhere to be found. With nobody to recall Overwatch, the shadowy black-ops cell Blackwatch resurfaces to take its place.  And their first recruit - Junkrat - is all too happy to be part of the new order.





	1. Toodles

**Author's Note:**

> First published fic plz do not murder me.

_Three layers of blast proof plastic_ , thought Junkrat, _a piece of piss, ey?_

The UN had done everything they could to make his cell as Junkrat-proof as possible. Everything that went in and out of his corner of the facility was checked, double checked, and checked again for anything that might be an explosive, or even a precursor to an explosive. They had studied his previous escapes to make sure that there was nothing - nothing - he could do to break out. His own cell was a cosy four by five meter room, surrounded by pure steel - except for the door, which was transparent but similarly in-penetrable. So, Junkrat had come up with a new plan.

It was simple. Take a guard hostage using something sharp the next time they came inside his cell, and make his demands: a jet ride to New Zealand, six sacks of goon, and a lifetime supply of the best military grade explosives he could care to think of. His chances were flatter than a duck’s foot that the UN actually even consider giving him what he wanted - that wasn’t the point. The point was that once everyone got wind where Junkrat was imprisoned - because this was definitely going to become national news - Roadhog would show up and bail him out with the most anarchic prison break of all time.

_Good ol’ Roadhog. Co-heistee. Road trip buddy. Friend._

Footsteps were approaching. Now was his chance. He had held onto a plastic spork from yesterday’s dinner, and he had sharpened it into an edge. Not exactly a fighting weapon, but it’d do for his plan. Shh. Be quiet. He’s coming. Sitting against the far wall of his cell, Junkrat’s grip around the spork tightened.

Boof. The lights went out. Something whacked into Junkrat’s face, knocking him down to the floor. His nose slammed straight down into concrete.

“Sorry about that, _amigo_ ,” said a girl’s voice in the darkness, “but I saw on the cameras that you were gonna spork me.”

“Oww…” said Junkrat, holding his now bloody nose, “is this that human rights abuse thing I’ve heard so much about?”

“Even worse, _muchacho_. This is a job interview,” said the girl. Junkrat could make out some of her features with what dim light there was - she was covered in glowing wires and gizmos. Her hair was shaved on one side to look like a circuit board - the other side of her hair was long and purple. There was definitely a tanned complexion, but it was too dark to tell for sure. She was smirking at him, but she also looked like the kind of girl who was permanently smirking at everyone she had ever met.

“Yeah nah,” Junkrat said, “I don’t think you want me. Got a criminal record, ey-”

She held her hand up to interrupt him. “Well maybe, but in about five minutes the guards are gonna figure out how to get through all those blast doors I locked downstairs, and I’ll be gone. You can be out with me if you cut the _caca_ and listen.”

Wiping the blood from his lip, Junkrat thought for a second. “You have my undivided attention. Who are you guys, anyway?”

“All you need to know is that my name is Sombra, and I work for some pretty important dudes,” she said. Using the device on her wrist, she projected various digital screens, each of them with a picture of an explosion on them, illuminating the entire cell. “You got some skills, I’ll give you that, _amigo_.”

Junkrat giggled. All of those were great memories. The Perth Kangarobot Sanctuary. The SS Firehawk. The Banco del Dorado. Marko’s pub. Some of his best work.

“Hey, hey, snap out of it,” said Sombra, clicking her fingers, “thought you said I got your attention, huh?”

He jumped, breaking out of his daze. “Oh, sometimes I just get lost in the good times is all.”

“Yeah yeah, whatever.” She fiddled with a few wires on her hand impatiently. “But you’re an artist in a world fulla people who don’t appreciate your art. Always throwing you away and locking up the key - just for doing what you love, you know? I know what that’s like. And I think, sometimes - ‘Sombra, why can’t you do the thing you’re best at without people hating you for it?’ Then I realised, I was just around the wrong people.”

Now here was the hitch, Junkrat thought, they wanted to pretend to understand him. “Sorry, but Junkrat is a lone wolf. A leaf on the wind. A single pringle. A box jellyfish, if you will,” he said. An alarm started to blare out somewhere down the corridor.

Sombra rolled her eyes. “I see. Look at this way, I don’t consider myself an employee. More of a temp contract, you get me?” She changed the screens from explosions to newsreel footage. Junkrat recognised most of the people in them. Mercy. Reinhardt. Ana Amari. Commander Jack Morrison. “You know these guys?”

“Overwatch, huh? You guys looking for some superheroes, ey?” A muffled bang rang outside the cell. Probably security breaching one of the blast doors. “Thought they were closed down because of that Blackwatch stuff.”

“Except…” said Sombra, drawing out her words, “Blackwatch was framed. People’ve been saying they turned into Talon, but nobody’s ever proved it. Least not with legit evidence. Just rumours. I got some good information that the UN- well. Not like you care about that stuff anyway, _amigo_?”

“No, not particularly,” said Junkrat. This Sombra girl was so interesting a minute ago, and now she’s talking about politics? What a bore. Another bang echoed into the cell, this time with a tiny shockwave.

“Well, long story short, some former members have looked at the world and thought - hey, maybe this Blackwatch thing wasn’t a bad idea after all. Like think about it? Some terrorists killing that gorilla scientist guy at Gibraltar? Or when that robot Dalai Lama went all…” she mimed a gunshot at Junkrat’s head, “And they think that Tracer girl’s involved? So yeah. Some people are thinking ‘hows about we get the world’s best together and give the whole Blackwatch thing a do-over?’ And maybe those people think you’re the sorta guy they want.”

Now this was interesting. “Well, what’s your offer?”

The were voices echoing somewhere in the distance. The guards must have broken through all of Sombra’s locked doors, but if that concerned her she didn’t show it. “So here’s the deal. You work for us, we give you free military-grade explosives, we’ll point you at something we want blown up, don’t ask too many questions, we get along fine. All for the greater good. If you can get your _amigo_ Roadhog on board, we’ll give you a bit of something extra too.”

“And what else?”

Sombra tapped her hand on her arm impatiently, “Not here to negotiate, I’m just a messenger. And you got about 30 seconds before your _muchachos_ over there come in here and start assuming you locked them out.” She gestured to an imaginary watch on her wrist. “Running out of time, sweetheart…”

To be honest, she had him at ‘free’. “Sounds like a deal, amigo! Amigia! Ami-” said Junkrat, leaning forward to shake Sombra’s hand.

“Great to hear,” she said, both interrupting and physically recoiling. “Oh, by the way…” She fiddled with device a few more times. “… Translocator only works for me. You’re gonna have to break your own way out. But, I left your grenade launcher outside the cell. Door’s open.” Pressing a button on her wrist, she did a little wave at him. “Toodles!” Sombra said, puffing away into a cloud of data.

As if by clockwork, six guards barged into his cell. One of them shouted, with a tazer raised and pointed, “Put your hands on your head!”

Junkrat looked at the sharpened spork in his hand, looked back at the guards, and cackled with glee.

 

 

 


	2. Close Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Junkrat goes on his first Blackwatch mission. Pharah and Mercy get some news.

“Fuck off it’s cold, ey,” said Junkrat. Everyone ignored him.

Right now, ‘everyone’ was that Sombra lady, this cowboy looking guy, and, to Roadhog’s joy, the Hog. Junkrat initially possessed reservations over whether the Hog was well and truly up for mayhem and disaster on a scale unseen by humankind, but after explaining the offer that Sombra had given him, the Hog nodded in silent approval. It’d been nearly a year since he had been broken out (well, in a way) of UN custody by Blackwatch, but this was the first time they had let him loose on the world. And Junkrat could hardly contain himself.

They were somewhere along the Alaskan coast. Apparently, Junkrat was never needed until then - something about a need for “subtlety” and “black ops needs to be stealthy”. He had packed intently for this mission - he even got himself a nice long fur coat when he heard he was going somewhere cold. You gotta use your head sometimes, he thought. The others had made less of an effort. Sombra was wearing a parka, the cowboy wore some sort of pelt, and Roadhog, the smartest of them all, overate before the trip so he had a layer of insulating blubber. Good ol’ Hog.

“So here’s the deal, guys,” said Sombra, who gestured for everyone to gather around the screen on her wrist. “This,” she said, as the screen showed a picture of an oil rig, surrounded by ice, “is the target. Turns out this place has been a secret factory for like… a shit-ton of replica Omnics. Like, they’re not smart or anything, you just sorta program them and they do it. I’ve traced it, and the people running it used it to massacre a bunch of people in a hostage taking in Slovenia.” It didn’t escape Junkrat’s notice that she said ‘massacre a bunch of people’ in the same tone someone would say ‘cardboard factory’. Oh well. He already knew she was nuts.

“Anyway,” she continued, “plan is to go in there, take out the whole operation, hack the databanks so we can track down the people responsible. Should just be guard-bots but…” she waved her hand and the image changed to a heat map of the oil rig, which showed definite heat signatures of what, scientifically speaking, were warm-blooded mammals. “Yeah. Intel says Talon decided to show their faces. So, amigos, we should go ahead and shoot them with bullets until they’re no longer alive. We’re kicking down the front door anyway, and it ain’t like this is a stealth mission. Questions?”

The cowboy nodded at her. “Yeah, I got one. How come we ain’t got no medic here?”

Sombra grinned her usual grin. “What, you worried about them messing with this pretty face, McCree? I’m gonna set off an EMP to disable most of the Bastion turrets once we’re close enough. And these guys? Talon ain’t gonna put their best men on the oil rig job. It’s no problem.”

The cowboy, who was apparently named McCree, nodded again to ask a second question. Now Junkrat was really starting to get annoyed at him. “Alright then,” said McCree, “but why’re we bringing a demolition expert to a place fulla goddamned oil, if these fellas ain’t a problem and there ain’t no turrets? You saying these guys are all we have?”

“God, McCree,” said Sombra, rolling her eyes, “Just stick to the plan, okay?”

“Just saying, is all,” he said.

Junkrat, who had already gotten tired with all the formalities, said “Yeah, yeah, yeah mate. Let’s get a move on shall we, ey? We’ve gotta oil rig to blow up!” Sombra muttered something about an idiota and Roadhog snorted loudly. And they’re right, Junkrat thought, this cowboy guy’s an idiot. The rest of the journey was in silence.

A few more hours went by until they were in visual range of the oil rig. It looked decrepit - almost a century old. Junkrat considered the millions of gallons of petroleum pumped through over the course of the rig’s working life, and wondered how large an explosion that all would make. He giggled again. They edged closer and closer, the steel hull of the boat pushing floating ice out of the way, creaking every time it smashed their way forward. Sombra was right - they were kicking in the front door. And Junkrat loved it.

“Say, Sombra,” said the cowboy McCree, when they were little over a few hundred meters away from the edge of the oil rig, “You see those Bastion turrets moving around?”

Her eyes narrowed, and she leaned over the side of the boat to get a better look. “Ah… fuck. They’re expecting us. I give it about… a minute till they get a lock on. And I can’t hack them from this distance. EMP’s off the table, too.” She turned to McCree, as if to say something.

Junkrat knew what to do. “Don’t worry mates, I’ve got this!” he said, grenade launcher raised above his head, “time for some Australian-style justice!”

“Junkrat, no” said Sombra

“Please don’t do this,” said McCree.

“Hmf,” said Roadhog.

“Ah, you’re a buncha poos, that’s what you are,” said Junkrat, sulking and not even trying to hide it.

Sombra put her hand on McCree’s shoulder, “You gotta shot, Mr. Bandito?”

“Sure do,” said McCree, taking a knee.

Leaning over to his ear, putting her other hand on McCree’s arm, she half whispered, “Don’t miss.” Junkrat felt a twinge of jealousy.

The cowboy certainly could shoot. Five shots from his Peacekeeper, and five Bastion turrets fell apart in the distance. But there were more than five. A hail of minigun fire flew over their heads a second later. “Get y’allselves to cover!” shouted McCree, diving to the ground.

Nobody tells me what to do, thought Junkrat, I’ll show that dumb cowman. With a throw of his explosive pack, he shouted “Alright, my turn!”, and blasted himself up in the air, up towards the oil rig. Crashing face first against the wall of the rig’s platform, the Bastion platforms didn’t even know how to handle him.

“Ahahahah, woah. That was a rough one,” he said as he got back up, to a confused Bastion turret. “Oh, oops. Hey mate!”

Luckily, Junkrat wasn’t stupid enough to go in unarmed. He had a grenade launcher and plenty of grenades. And things to shoot at.

Boom. Boom. Boom. This was paradise! Blackwatch rocks!

He looked over the railing and down at his team. “Coast is clear guys!” he said to them. He noticed there was a hole in the boat’s deck. Whoopsie. “Oh, sorry about that. But I blew them up! Aren’t I great?”

“Yeah, it’s what you’re paid for,” said Sombra, who translocated up behind him. “Just don’t do that to every boat we get, okay?”

The Hog threw up a chain, and lifted both himself and McCree up onto the rig. McCree didn’t show a lot of emotion, but from what Junkrat could see the cowboy was unhappy. Therefore Junkrat was happy.

“Ha ha. Get this guys,” said Sombra, “Turns out there’s, uh…” She whistled. “We’re next to the main hanger. A lot more Talon in there than we thought there were. Wow-ee.”

Roadhog shrugged. “Let’s get going,” he said, shoving some wreckage from a nearby Bastion into his shotgun, “Time’s wasting.”

Junkrat didn’t need telling twice. He stuck another demolition charge to the wall. “Might want to step back a bit there, mates,” he said, with pride. He clicked the trigger. Bang. Smoke. Hole.

“Alright, Roadhog, you’re up!” shouted Sombra, wildly pointing inside the breach. Roadhog, sticking a crank in his shotgun, laughed maniacally. Within seconds, Roadhog fired an obscene amount of metal inside the main hanger of the rig.

“Hahahahaha! Run, piggies, run!” he roared, pelting everything through the smoke like hell. And everything in there was shooting back - not that bullets even phased the Hog in the slightest.

Sombra dropped her translocator on the ground. “See you guys in a second,” she said, waving and disappearing behind her camo, “Cover me!”

More chances for mayhem! Junkrat thought. He launched volley after volley of grenade into the hanger. He charged in, determined to deny the enemy as much ground as possible by exploding it. Through the smoke, Sombra re-appeared behind two Talon soldiers, and within seconds she dropped both of them. A Bastion behind her activated, winding up it’s turret with a metallic roar - this barely phased her. It fired enough rounds at her to turn a normal person into mush, but before they even had a change to hit her she was gone. But the turret spotted Junkrat. He stopped in his tracks completely, leaping behind a metal container.

“Miss me?” Sombra said, re-appearing next to Junkrat again and popping another clip into her submachine gun.

Junkrat was impressed. “Nah yeah, how’re you going?”

“They got like ten more of those things in there. I’ll drop an EMP to take them out.” She grinned, and Junkrat knew why. She was showing off her favourite toy. “You got that tire thing working?”

“Are you actually asking that, ey?”

She laughed. “Asked a stupid question.” Sombra went invisible again. “You know what to do! McCree, distract them!”

McCree lept up to a walkway, firing rapidly from the vantage point. Time for the best boom of all! Thought Junkrat, taking the rolling bomb - one of his own design - off of his back.

“Lights out, suckers!” shouted Sombra. Simultaneously, every light and Bastion in the hanger went haywire and shut down. This was the signal. Junkrat pulled back on the rip-cord, and the tire flew into the middle of the hanger. Seconds later, an earth-shattering kaboom sent robot parts and human parts flying everywhere. Junkrat took this as a sign to charge.

He cackled with glee, firing what remained of his grenades in the air, knowing they would find the way to their target.

“Junkrat?”

Can’t stop now!

“Uh, we’ve won, Junkrat,” said Sombra, “Like, dude. Chill.”

Junkrat raised an eyebrow, and lowered his weapon. “Oh. Okay.”

He looked around. The briefing didn’t lie. There were Bastion parts littered all over the place, and Talon guards in their distinctive uniforms. They found Roadhog a few minutes later (who had apparently been going on a killing spree through the crew quarters), and the databank Sombra wanted were found undamaged in a floorsafe. Junkrat and friends had killed the bad guys, and he felt warm and fuzzy for it.

“So what now?” said Junkrat, poking a burning body with his grenade launcher, “We go home?”

“Uh, not yet,” Sombra said, fiddling with a device once again. “McCree, you ready for your close up?”

“Close up?” said Junkrat. Nobody said anything about a movie.

“Yeah, yeah. Give me a second,” said McCree, limping over to the center of the hangar, taking a knee next to a torched Bastion.

“Alright,” said Sombra, now holding up some sort of camera, “Camera loves you, baby. Lights, Camera, Action…”

McCree cleared his throat, and said, “My name is Jesse McCree…”

 

____

 

The first time was an accident, just some harmless flirting taken too far. After a few weeks of avoiding each other, Angela tried to apologise to Fareeha for her indiscretion - which lead to a second ‘accident’. Now, with their third ‘accident’ come and gone, it was hard to dance around that this was now a regular thing. Which suited the both of them just fine.

It was late morning in Prague. Fareeha was on ‘cultural leave’ and Angela was giving lectures on the application of cybiotic medical implants at the University - a perfect excuse for two old friends to have an innocent meeting. Fareeha, struggling to find her clothes, was searching all over the weekend apartment, as Angela sat in front of a mirror, trying to fix her hair. In the other room, a holovision was loudly playing a 24 hour news channel - which they had forgotten to turn off the night before. And they were talking about old times.

“I do think reforming Overwatch is a good idea, at heart,” she said, “A second chance to really change this world for the better.” Fareeha could see Angela smiling in the reflection. For as long as Fareeha had known Angela, the idea of helping other people always made Angela smile, even without noticing it. It was stupid and she hated that it made her fall for Angela even more.

“That’s my girl,” said Fareeha, kissing her on the cheek, and going back to looking for her clothes.

“I’ve been thinking a lot,” said Angela, “about what happened with Tracer. Have you heard any news?”

“Nothing I’ve heard.” Fareeha sighed. ”Tracer is… Tracer. And she was always close to Winston. What happened must have hurt her.”

“But still… disappearing off the radar, that’s very strange for her, don’t you think?” Angela brushed her hair aside into her trademark flourish.

Fareeha put on her left boot. “Tracer disappearing? Very strange,” she said, with the tiniest hint of irony.

“Yes, well. You know what I meant,” said Angela. She made a serious face. “And don’t make jokes about that.”

“I’m not,” said Fareeha, realising she had been rude. Angela’s memory of Tracer was more than just the funny, skinny girl who had been Fareeha’s mom’s friend. She was Angela’s colleague in Overwatch. And it was a reminder that even though Tracer was far younger than Fareeha, she was beloved in Overwatch - whilst Fareeha never had the chance to even join. “But, you understand what I mean, right?”

“Yes, I do,” Angela said, with a note of sadness in her voice, “but I do wish I could see that brat again.”

Fareeha didn’t want to dwell on the subject. Zipping her Helix Security hoodie, and finally fully clothed, she stood up and hugged her lover from behind. “You do miss it all, don’t you?” 

Angela nodded, rested her head back into Fareeha’s chest, and closed her eyes. Perfect. But, a few seconds later, something caught Angela’s notice, and she paced off into the adjacent room.

“Angela?” Fareeha said, concerned.

“Are you hearing this?” Angela was pointing at the holovision screen. Fareeha recognised the man speaking. Jesse McCree, speaking to the camera, in the middle of some warzone.

“… Those that recognise me know I was in an organisation calling itself ‘Blackwatch’. I ain’t gonna defend the actions of that group. There were some bad apples, but there were bad apples on both sides of that argument. The fact is, though, is we now live in a world that is worse off than when the ‘Watch ended. So we, some former members, have decided enough is enough…”

“Mein gott,” whispered Angela.

“… Behind me is what’s left of a facility that made Bastion Omnics, used in the Slovenian hostage massacre earlier this month. Me, and three other members of the Reformed Blackwatch, came here and brought the people running this place to justice. We've only got one message: if you're a do-er of evil in this world, you ain’t safe no more. Those who fought beside us before are welcome to join us, in Blackwatch, if they think they got what it takes.” The video cut out immediately, and the holovision returned to a 24 hour newsfeed - no doubt ablaze with speculation.

Fareeha turned to Angela. “You know what this is, right?”

Angela nodded, her face pale. “A recall.”


	3. Long Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sombra goes hiking. Tracer takes in some local sights.

Talon was a petty, grubby little gang, and Sombra knew it every time she worked with them. No crime was too stupid and pointlessly brutish, and their agenda was often nonsensical. Like her, they were opportunists, but they were bad at it - made even worse by the elevated sense of importance that came with thinking themselves as the army that broke Overwatch. If she were desperate for money no doubt she would be a full member, but Sombra long ago figured out how to skim all the money she ever needed from hedge funds and off-shore tax havens. Instead, she drifted in and out when it suited it her - either out of boredom or if their goals happened to align - but, didn’t have any qualms about killing them if they were on the opposite side. Only rarely would she ever consider what they would do to her if they found out she played both teams, but she had collected enough dirt over the years to expose Talon’s financiers into extinction if that day ever came. This was not that day, yet.

Today, one of their best had brought Sombra here. Amelie Lacroix, a woman who needed no introduction, hid somewhere in Austria after a botched assassination and Sombra. Even the best can miss, sometimes. On a personal level Sombra never really liked Lacroix and she never made a secret of it - the so-called Widowmaker was smug, condescending and arrogant - but her presence was a good reminder for why Sombra didn’t commit to Talon in the first place. The forced conditioning of a hostage into a killer was needlessly cruel and typical of Talon’s brutality for the sake of brutality. After all, Talon could have just shot Gerard Lacroix themselves, and there was no shortage of potential Overwatch moles at the time. But Widowmaker carried a link to Talon’s internal network in her communicator, and Sombra needed to know what they knew about her work with Blackwatch. So, she would bail out Widowmaker, and steal her info while she wasn't noticing.

Sombra was close now. Following the map on her monitor, she had scaled halfway up a forested hill in northern Austria. She had time to admire the landscape - Sombra had seen these sorts of places in pictures, and while she wasn’t one to get sentimental even she was dazed by the scenery. Rolling mountains; lush, autumnal forrests; scenic Austrian houses dotted around; she silently made a note to thank Widowmaker for picking this place to law low. What she was looking for right now was an old escape pod that had fired from Geneva - supposedly Reinhardt used it during the bombing - and reset it so that Widowmaker could escape the country without alerting the authorities. This was no ordinary escape pod - it’s stealth capabilities made it virtually untraceable, had long range capabilities, required no piloting, and Reinhardt had forgotten to fry the electronics when he abandoned it so Sombra make it do whatever she wanted. Her wrist beeped louder and louder as Sombra got closer. And there it was - still in one piece, partially wedged into the ground, behind a large, mossy rock and surrounded by a particularly short cluster of trees.

“Alright _chica_ , you gonna co-operate?” said Sombra out loud, to the pod. It was some pretty advanced tech, and Overwatch toys were always a joy to play with whenever she got her hands on them. This one was a little dated, though, and as she started her uplink she noticed some fairly typical coding limitations from the early Overwatch era. Still, she admired the longevity - considering it was supposed to be a one time escape-pod and crashed five years ago, that it could still be recovered and re-used took amazing foresight in design.

But also, to Sombra, it was part the most short-sighted aspects of the cause. This sort of incredible tech was outstanding, but only really existed for the sake of Overwatch itself. She had read how, in the dying days of Overwatch, world leaders would wave leaked photographs of advanced technology in Watchpoint Gibraltar in front of UN committees as evidence of Overwatch’s worst sin - that it had turned from a peacekeeping force, little-by-little, to a pseudo-country in an arms race with the rest of the world. This, more than the evidence of torture or black ops, was the death blow to Overwatch. After all, governments did the same all the time, and rarely bothered to hide it - Overwatch’s crime was that it wasn’t supposed to be a government in the first place.

The civil war didn’t help, though. She’d heard the story by proxy. Years before Overwatch member ever even shot at Blackwatch member, structure had crumbled so far that there was no longer any sort of collaboration between two branches. Overwatch agents hated the methods of their counterparts, and Blackwatch thought that the main branch were dangerously lax about their mission. Blackwatch became more and more insular as the gruesome public charges, some of them obvious smears against the whole of Overwatch, mounted - and as that happened, members either deserted, or simply stopped caring about right or wrong. Loyalties became more tribal than ideological, providing Reyes with easy soldiers for his own feud with Commander Morrison. When the Commander tried to investigate and reintergrate Blackwatch, after huge public and UN pressure, Reyes bit back with the Geneva attack. By the time the bloodletting was over, there was barely an Overwatch left to abolish.

Yet, hindsight had been flattering to Overwatch. The survivors of Blackwatch either fell off the map or found work with Talon - the only employer who would ever even consider accepting them. But former members of Overwatch were still heroes. High profile members still lived on and enjoyed a media worship through posters and comic books. In most countries you could find at least one museum dedicated to them, boasting about displaying some piece of Overwatch history - Sombra had broken into many during her early days. Public figures, in some places, even called for the return of the supergroup whenever atrocity or disaster struck. A much kinder treatment than what Blackwatch got, anyway, who became the sole villain of Overwatch’s tragedy in every retelling of the story. Even cooler heads like Winston, even when critical of Overwatch’s mistakes, still saw Blackwatch as nothing less than pure evil - at least, he used to.

But Overwatch was dead, and Blackwatch still lived on, both through the members of Talon and the little splinter that had popped up. Sombra had her part in that, too.

She made a mental note to be careful what she said to Widowmaker, as she put the finishing touches on the stealth pod. It had a destination, enough fuel left over from it’s casual glide from Geneva, and the on-board computer was set to recognise Widowmaker’s biometrics (the pod was dated enough that it still responded to Gerard Lacroix and, by protocol, his immediate family if set to evacuate mode). Recoding it was fun - it was hardly difficult, but some of the last few failsafes were tricky enough to test some of her rustier skills. With her finger, Sombra drew a little winky-face in the dust on pod as a little personal flair. 

The harder part was pulling it out of the ground so it could fly away. Sombra had prepared, though. Two magnetic thrusters - provided by Talon - had enough force to shift it out of the ground. It was a brute force method, but it worked. She slapped them on the side, stepped to a safeish distance, and turned them on.

Crash. The pod flew back into a tree, snapping it in half. Sombra flinched and jumped down to the ground - the top half of the tree narrowly missed squashing her, and landed somewhere down the hill. _Oh well_ , she thought, _it's out of the ground now._ It's engines were exposed, so the pod could take off. Meaning Sombra's work here was finished.

Now to find Widowmaker. Another hike.

Lacroix had hidden out in a small, picturesque village about fifteen miles away. It was definitely the sort of place someone like Sombra would stick out, but she didn’t intend to stay long. Besides, since the Omnic war, these villages had managed to invest their small town prejudices into Omnics instead of outsiders, and likely they would assume she was just a Viennese tourist to the highlands. Sombra decided to keep walking through the woods rather than follow a road - any stray Omnics from the war would hardly be a problem for a hacker prodigy, and she didn't mind the walk in rougher terrain. To speed things up as she hiked, she'd throw her translocater ahead and teleport to it - she half considered just sitting down and moving entirely by translocating, but that was lazier a shortcut than even Sombra could bring herself to stoop to.

By the time Sombra arrived, after a considerable walk, it was dusk and most had retired to their homes, or to those alpine beer-gardens where the locals liked to gather. The streets were empty, and navigating her way through to the central church - where Widowmaker had taken refuge - leisurely. It was a nice, quiet evening that reminded Sombra of the lazier days in rural Mexico, and it was a shame she was working. It’d be over soon anyway. All she needed to do was throw her translocator up into the clock tower.

The moment Sombra translocated into the tower she heard that distinctive, sultry voice. "Don't move!", it said.

“Hey, _amiga_ , you’re welcome,” Sombra said, tutting. Clearly Widowmaker had been up here for a while - a sleeping bag had been rolled out, and she had a communicator set up. She had some snacks, but her slow metabolism meant she could last for weeks on starvation rations. Sombra also noticed another one of Widowmaker's personal touches - a venom mine was nailed into the door, likely killing any poor souls who might wander in to appreciate authentic alpine church design. "Cool place to hide out, by the way."

Widowmaker kept her rifle trained on Sombra instinctively, without even a hint of familiarity or friendliness. “Codeword first.”

Rolling her eyes, Sombra leaned against the wall, inspecting her nails. “Uh, I dunno. Long Island or something. Give me a break.”

The Sniper clenched her jaw, likely annoyed, but relaxed her aim. Which was good, because Sombra had genuinely forgotten the codeword. “You’re late,” said Widowmaker.

Sombra knew she was late. She made sure to take as much time as possible. “I dunno, Amelie, on time by my watch.” Using Widowmaker’s real name was a conscious choice. Half of Sombra’s ability to deal with Talon was showing them that she, not they, were in control, and slipping in tidbits of their profile was part of it. Reaper especially hated it.

“Regardless, I hope everything has gone as planned.” Widowmaker lowered her sniper, finally, and picked up a backpack. “It has been a stressful week.”

“Oh, yeah,” said Sombra. “Heard about that. A bit of a _pathétique_ show.”

There was no response. Widowmaker probably thought Sombra’s ribbing was below her notice. Dick.

“Anyway.” Sombra swiped forward on her wrist input. “Location for your get-out. Got it all set up for you, you just need to get in.”

“Good,” Widowmaker said. “But first, there was something I wish to ask. These Blackwatch people.”

Sombra shrugged. “Think we’re not being told something?” she said.

“I thought you might know something.”

“Sorry, _amiga_ , got nothing. Thought they were you in disguise, or something” said Sombra, checking her nails again, “You gonna deal with them?”

“In time.” Widowmaker, climbed onto the edge of the clocktower. “I suppose I must say thank you for your assistance,” she said without a shred of sincerity.

Sombra nodded and grinned. “Yeah, you should. And make sure you don’t miss next time.”

Widowmaker rolled her eyes, and swan-dived off of the tower, grappling away with typical Widowmaker drama. She easily could have used the stairs. _But,_ Sombra thought, still smirking and scrolling through the data she had been quietly hijacking, _they’re not onto me_.

  
___

 

It was hard for Tracer to travel incognito. She had, so far, managed to excuse the chronal accelerator as being a bionic heart replacement and that actually it was very offensive to say that it looked like ‘that Tracer thing’. Apart from being the face of Overwatch way back then, she had to lug around her hardly inconspicuous chronal accelerator. Things became even more difficult just after she made it to North America, when she was implicated in the assassination of Tekhartha Mondatta. Whereas Widowmaker was largely hidden in the footage of the murder, Tracer’s big and colourful fighting style made her stand out like a sore thumb. In a rush to bring the assassin to justice, Tracer never thought that she needed to clear her own name. And now, with Talon and whoever was in charge of them spreading that she was the killer, it was far too late. She had been stupid, stupid, stupid.

First came the datablocks. As she tried to chase the Widowmaker into North Amerca, she thought it was weird that none of her messages to her friends would get through. She tried everything, internet cafes, asking strangers if she could send a message from their phones, even breaking in to an abandoned Overwatch outpost to see if she could use their systems. All failed. Like some force was actively blocking her whenever she, personally, tried to contact anyone. Next came the arrest warrant - wanted for questioning for the murder of Tekhartha Mondatta. Normally, should would have gladly co-operated with the authorities, but constant warnings that she was ‘armed and dangerous’ told her that there was something more sinister at work. Then there was the Talon ambush on her at Baton Rogue, the SWAT team in Denver, a sniper attack in Sacramento. She was being hunted, and she knew it. And she needed help.

But the worst was behind her. A fake passport now replaced her real one, and she went by names like Heidi, Cindabel, and Olga, but never Lena. Hopping over the border from America to Mexico was surprisingly simple, and she was a confident enough liar (which surprised even herself) to avoid attention from the Authorities or Talon or Los Muertos. Tracer had the sense to cover the accelerator with a poncho which gave her some sense of of anonymity. And as the news got grimmer, she only grew more resolute. Every time she heard, out of the corner of her ear, that Blackwatch were doing what ‘needed to be done’ she would clench her teeth, mutter some semi-rude words, and move on. Dorado was in sight, and she had exhausted her last favour on the entire continent to get there with an address in her hand.

Walking through the streets of one of the more slummy neighbourhoods on Dorado’s outskirts, she tried not to think of the similarly tight backstreets of London. Not just because of how much she missed it, but because of the poverty. Like in London, the street kids ran around, wrist monitors in hand, trying to prank eachother with hacking pranks, or bounced footballs on their doorsteps. They were the two options for a kid in absolute poverty in this day and age - become a sports star, or a computer genius. A third option also existed in both cities - in Dorado, there was Los Muertos, and in London there were the anti-Omnic hate gangs. Dorado, however, had been spared the pain of an Omnic population, which was constantly the victim of the most awful injustices, and the riots that came with it. There was a crack of a gunshot as the sun started to set, and nobody around her registered this as unusual. It was sad, and Tracer felt a duty to go investigate.

Crack, crack, crack. Now it was a fully blown fight. Tracer sprinted as fast as she could, unbuckling her back and trying to find her pistols as she ran. She span around a corner - now the fighting was even louder - zipping along in time as fast as she could. Angry voices shouted in Spanish, both from the fight and at her as she knocked over plant pots.

“Sorry! Accident! Can’t stop!” she tried to say in a mangled accent, hoping that it would suddenly turn her apologies into fluent Spanish. She turned into the square, and saw injured men - covered in glowing tattoos- , hiding behind a large, central fountain, holding their heads down in fear and not even trying to fire the guns slung around their chests.

And then she saw him. An man with greying hair, a red visor, a distinct blue uniform, and that big gun of his. _This was him_ , she thought. Not just because Tracer recognised him, but because this was her last lead possible. There was no alternative and nobody else she trusted.

"Commander!" she shouted, "it's me!"


	4. Pardon my French

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tracer talks to an old friend. Pharah takes a flight.

  
The old man turned to her. “Get out of here!” he shouted, “Last warning!” It was too late, though. Tracer had already seen the slightest flinch of recognition in him.

“Come on! You know me! You have to listen to me!”

He growled, but he didn’t seem willing to force her away. Out of the corner of her eye, the Los Muertos fighters tried to creep away while their attacker was distracted, having abandoned their guns completely.

“Nobody gets away! Not today!” shouted the old man. He turned his gun towards them…

“No!” Tracer cried out. They were unarmed. This wasn’t how Overwatch did things. Zipping ahead, she tackled him, crashing into the old Commander, knocking him over.

“Get off me!” he said, trying in vain to push her away. It was too late, though, they were gone. “Oxton, what the hell are you doing?”

Tracer stood up, dusting herself off. Using her real name confirmed all she needed to know - that this was indeed the Commander, and that he had given up any charade of pretending he wasn’t to her. “Do we kill people who run away without their guns now?”

“We?” he said with a tinge of annoyance, getting to his feet. “Didn’t know they were shooting at you too.”

“You know exactly what I mean.” Tracer stepped towards him. “We had rules before.”

“Hmn,” he grunted. “They’ll kill again.”

“And you…” Tracer prodded him in the chest. “…used to care about those rules.”

She apparently had a point, because the Commander turned away from her and paused for thought. “Do yourself a favour, kid, and get out of here,” said the old man eventually, his jaw slightly clenched, “things are going to get unpleasant here very soon. Not a place for you.”

“Hah! Not likely!” said Tracer, with just a hint of a boast. “I didn’t come all the way from bloody England just to say hello!”

The Commander shrugged and contemplated again. Tracer had, at the very least, convinced him that she wasn’t going away easily. “Hmm,” he said, crouching down and inspecting a body.

“Were they Talon?” asked Tracer, leaning over the same body in curiosity.

The old soldier looked through their pockets, but his unimpressed expression showed he already knew exactly who they were.

“Well?” said Tracer. _I don’t have time for your games, Commander,_ she thought.

“Not Talon,” said Commander Morrison, throwing away the hitman’s wallet with disinterest, “Run-of-the-mill Los Muertos goons, hired by Congo Jack. Nothing that concerns you.”

Tracer crossed her arms in a huff. “So they’re just some of the usual people trying to murder you. My mistake. Sorry for making a mountain out of a molehill.”

“It’s not a problem,” he insisted. He turned to her, still crouching, and inspected her up and down. Something in his body language changed, he looked more relaxed - only just a bit. “Oxton, I know what happened. I haven’t been living in a cave. But I chose this war I’m fighting now. I’m not involving you, and I am not leaving when the people here need me most.

Tracer huffed. “So you’re just going to be a guerrilla in bloody Mexico for the rest of your life?”

“Yeah. Sounds about right. You need to be leaving.”

“Pardon my French, sir,” she said, “But you’re being a right…” Tracer paused, trying to think of something profane. “… old … fucker!” Great. She stuttered. _Now he thinks I’m even more of a stupid little child,_ she thought. But, to her surprise, the old man smirked. Maybe she was on the right track after all.

“I always liked you, Oxton,” he said, “Nobody else goes what you’ve been through and still ends up being a ray of sunshine.”

“And my name is Tracer, not Oxton,” she said, with assertion. From the look on his face Tracer could tell the Commander liked that too.

He stood up. “Well, if I can’t chase you off, you’d better come with me.” Walking away, the Commander said “Try to keep up.”

Tracer beamed at him. “Not hard for me, love!”

  
___

  
_‘… in the end, humanitarian efforts during the power vacuum in Western Europe immediately after the Omnic Crisis failed for two key reasons. Firstly, the nations of the world invested so much resources in a largely apolitical Overwatch meant that local forces had devolved into voluntary militias, who were suspicious of outside organisations, and secondly the active resistance of national governments to allow Overwatch to intervene. Not only did these areas become the scenes for the most outrageous tragedies since the Omnic Crisis, but they likely would have descended to outright ethnic cleansing in some places had Overwatch not ignored these reluctant nations and took control of the situation themselves. This heroic but technically illegal act by Jack Morrison effectively saved Europe from spiralling into chaos, but also proved that the international community depended on…’_

It was early afternoon at Central European Supersonic Airport, and Fareeha read her book while she waited for her plane. Angela had lent her an especially good history book about the post-Omnic Crisis days, that Angela had contributed to, which passed the time plenty. She never liked flying from CESA - it managed to both be too sterile and too grimy at the same time - but Angela had insisted that she fly back to Cairo first class in under an hour. “I live in tents half the time,” she remembered Angela saying, after she failed to convince Fareeha to extend her stay in Prague, “I can afford to spend a little on someone special.” She definitely was too good for Fareeha, but Fareeha didn’t want to jinx it.

Fareeha glanced at the flight screen. 'Gate 6 Boarding for Cairo'. She’d be home again soon, and back at work. Helix was honest work for a soldier like her - she was hardly saving kittens from trees like she’d hoped as a child, but there were definitely far worse things ex-army could be doing in this world. Getting up, and picking up her bag, Fareeha headed off to catch her flight.

Out of nowhere, a short, purple haired girl smacked into her. The girl, bouncing off of Fareeha and landing on the tiled floor, shouted some profanity in, as far as Fareeha could tell Spanish.

“Oh my God, I’m so sorry,” said Fareeha, offering a hand.

“Pff. Watch where you’re going, _idiota_ ,” said the girl, waving away Fareeha’s hand and standing up by herself and storming off. It was rude, but Fareeha hardly had thin skin. She just shrugged and headed off for the gate.

She checked her phone again - Angela had sent her a digital pass - so she could fly through boarding and enjoy her hour of aviation decadence. Nothing. It wouldn’t turn on. Uh oh. Fareeha took a seat in the waiting area and pressed the on button again and again.

“Come on. This isn’t funny,” she said to her phone, hoping that would shame it into working. Surprisingly, it did. The phone flashed on again - but immediately opened a chat app she didn’t recognise.

There was only two people in the chat - Fareeha and a stranger. The other sent one message. ‘Hi friend.’

Fareeha groaned. Probably this was some script kiddie who was trolling CESA goers by breaking their phones. ‘Fuck off,’ Fareeha wrote.

There was no written response. Just a single image, in black and white. It was surveillance footage showing an old woman, from behind, outside a gas station. From the Arabic writing on the walls, it was somewhere in the middle east - from the dialect, Egypt. A second later, another message. ‘Info about Ana Amari. You want?’

She was shocked. Her mother was dead. Fareeha had grieved, and moved on. Someone was playing a sick joke on her, and she wanted no part of it. Without prompting, another message. ‘Be my friend and you find out. Board plane to Gibraltar, Gate 29.’ Along with it, another boarding pass - first class, going straight to Gibraltar Airport in a few minutes time. Clearly this was someone with resources, not just a prankster. Now this was becoming positively dangerous. _What if this was bait?_ , she thought.

‘Tick tock,’ read another message. Her mother left for a mission and never came back. That was the end of it. _They never found a body_ , Fareeha thought, _she could have been captured. What if she was turned into another Widowmaker?_  A Talon sniper killed her in Overwatch’s most disastrous operation. There was a funeral. _And there wasn't a body at the funeral_. This could be a trap. _What if it isn’t?_

Fareeha had to be decisive. Cairo or Gibraltar. She found closure at her mother’s funeral, definitely, but now it had been torn open with the possibility she was still alive. And Gibraltar was very specific. Not only was there a Watchpoint, but Winston was killed there only a few months ago - and if this person tracked down her mother, and specifically wanted to meet in Gibraltar, maybe they had information about Winston’s murderer too. All the world deserved to know who kill Winston, just as much as Fareeha deserved to know if her mother was still out there. Dad deserved to know if Mom was still alive too. This was about more than just her. She sent a message, ‘Need better proof or I do nothing’.

Within seconds, there was a second picture. This one clearer, with the woman facing towards the camera, and this time clearly holding a long, advanced sniper rifle. Fareeha openly gasped - that was her mother’s face for certain. Not just from Fareeha’s memories (and that her mother looked remarkably like herself), but because only one person in the entire world walked around with that biotic rifle of hers. Mom was worse for wear, yes, and apparently wearing an eyepatch, but it was her. She received another message, ‘Believe me now?’ it said, ‘Truth is in Gibraltar.’  _Gibraltar it was._

Fareeha still had a flight to catch, and she was late. She had to sprint for it - a terrifying sight for any one standing in the way of the tall Egyptian soldier. She managed to reach the boarding gate, with a few minutes to spare. The stewardess smiled, asking “Pass, please?” The stewardess had the hint of a Swiss accent - immediately, Fareeha felt guilty for not using the flight Angela had paid for. She would explain later - obviously Angela would understand. Hell, she probably would have done the same if some hacker promised intel on Ana Amari’s survival. Fareeha would call her, tell her she had found Ana, and everything would be fine. Angela would understand. Fareeha wished she was still in Prague.

“Here,” said Fareeha, handing over her phone with a forced smile, “heading for Gibraltar.”


	5. Shithead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> McCree and Sombra exchange information.

The bar was typically Andalusian, with just the few touches of British paraphernalia creating that odd Gibraltan clash. Nobody else was around - Jesse assumed that Sombra had set the front door to only allow his own biometrics through. She had also, showing plenty of foresight, activated an automatic bartender and set every drink to free (except for the brand of bourbon whiskey he liked, which was set to five trillion US dollars) - and also left it on Spanish language mode, meaning that Jesse had to spend several minutes trying to order a drink (eventually settling for scotch). Now, he had to wait. Depending on Sombra’s mood, she would likely arrive anywhere between an hour early or three hours late - something which Jesse had learned to deal with, along with her other quirks. He didn’t mind none, though, being a wanted man worldwide made him appreciate the value of an empty bar. He had a good cigar, a drink, a quiet barstool. A good Monday morning.

A door opened behind him. The sound of heels. He didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“Thanks for keeping my bar warm for me,” Sombra said, slapping her hand down on the corner from behind him and dropping a backpack on the floor. “You have a problem getting over?”

“Ain’t too hard. I know how to stay hidden.” Jesse took another sip. He took a glance at the hacker - she didn’t look as bubbly as she usually did. And she wasn’t wearing her usual getup - swapping her, admittedly very flattering, purple outfit for the less conspicuous t-shirt and jeans (still purple, though).

“My day sucked. Five countries in one day. _Jesucristo._ Haven’t slept.” She snapped her fingers to the automatic bar. “ _¿Hola, puedo tener una_ ‘Long Island’ _, por favor?,_ ” she said to the bar. A solid-light glass rose out of the bar surface, and several nozzles wormed their way out from behind. Within seconds, her cocktail produced itself, and she snatched it from the counter.

“Early for a Long Island, don’t you think?”

“Says the guy drinking scotch at 10am, _amigo_ ,” she said, taking the barstool next to him. “So, like, I'll make it quick. Fareeha Amari is in the town whenever you want her. Got her going on a wild goose chase for clues. I think I sent her to a boat museum or something.”

  
___

  
Fareeha checked her phone again. She was right under the sign. ‘Gibraltar Yacht Museum’. This had to be the place.

‘I’m here’, she wrote into the chat.

Within seconds response, likely automatic. ‘Mom’s location is at your door / but to find it you must soar / towards the memorial for the Anglo-Dutch War.’

“FUCKER!” Fareeha shouted out loud, frightening museum security.

___

 

Jesse had to admire her efficiency. From as far as he could tell, Sombra could drag pretty much anyone to anywhere without so much as a sweat. “You got her here, alone?”

“Yeah,” said Sombra, now a very admirable halfway through her Long Island, “I hacked into the Egyptian Military Network, placed a biometric tracker into all of the TVs in Cairo, and subliminally engineered her into taking a ferry to the south of Spain. _Sencillo_.” She was grinning - she was always grinning. It looked good on her.

“Really?”

“Actually, because I ran into her at an airport and put a thing in her phone that told her about her Mom.”

“Huh.” Knowing how much Sombra loved her little games, he thought it was easier just to take anything she said at face value rather than indulge her. Jesse puffed on his cigar again. Sombra had took out her own cigarette and lighter, and slid over an ashtray of her own with her finger.

“Everything in place for the takeover?” she said, lighting one. “The _muchachos_ all know what’s on?” She inhaled, and exhaled.

“Ain’t your concern,” said Jesse. Which was true. Apart from the Oil Rig operation, they were supposed to be in totally different cells. He didn’t even think she was supposed to know about the Watchpoint job, only that she was supposed to bring Fareeha Amari here.

Sombra shrugged. “I’ll find out anyway. You know I can.”

“Maybe I’d have the inclination to tell you,” Jesse ashed the end of his cigar, “if I even knew why you’re doing this. Ain’t like you got a reason to join Blackwatch. How’m I supposed to know you’re not trying to sell me out?”

“I’m just passionate about justice, is all.”

“Bull,” said Jesse, “Shit.”

“Okay, okay,” Sombra said. “I will tell you why I got involved with Blackwatch, for a trade,”. Now she grinned again, mischievously.

McCree stubbed out his, now spent, cigar. “Alright. I'll bite.”

“I tell you…” she said, tilting her head to the side. She took an extra long drag. “… and you kiss me.”

“Ah, I see.” Jesse leaned back in his chair, smirking lopsidedly. “You sure ain’t a coy one.”

Sombra giggled. “You ain’t saying no either, cowguy.” She tapped on the table. “Do I get the pleasure of a smooch from the great Deadlock outlaw Jesse McCree?” Jesse knew she was a lady and a half looks wise, but he’d never really thought about how exceptionally pretty Sombra was before. The haircut and tattoo thing wasn’t really his type neither, but he wasn’t blind. He knew she was terrifyingly effective in the field, of course, and didn’t forget how dangerous she could be, but she was still incredibly striking. She was messing with him, definitely, but there wasn’t any harm in calling her bluff.

“Now Sombra, if anything the privilege is gonna be mine here,” Jesse said. Sombra stopped grinning and bit her lip, while staring into him with those powerful blue eyes. Jesse appreciated that. “You gonna put your money where my mouth is, sweetheart?” he said.

He put his hand on hers, and leaned into her. And, to Jesse’s surprise, she leaned too, running her other arm up his, not-so-subtly gripping him. Under the chair, she grazed her own leg against his ever so lightly. So not a bluff, then. They closed their eyes, turned their heads, pressing the length of their bodies into each other. Her hand was on the back of his shoulders, running up him like soft silk…

Jesse then, pulling her hand up to his face, gave her a light, gentlemanly peck on the back of her hand. He turned back to the bar as if nothing happened. Sombra just remained there, lips still open, spending a second still leaning in make-out position before she realised she’d been stood up. He half expected her to slap him - if he would if he was in her position. Instead, she burst out laughing.

“You’re a shithead, McCree” she said, regaining her composure and turning back to the bar.

“Owed a story, I think,” Jesse said, sipping his scotch again.

She ran her finger around the top of her glass, slowly and purposefully. “I was hired.”

Jesse waited to see if she would go on. She didn’t. “What a tale that turned out to be.”

“What’d you expect?” she said, “You know I don’t talk about anything.”

“Seeing as expectation is that we’re fighting together, I’m thinking I deserve a some more trustsomeness.”

Sombra finished her glass, putting it down with a clear thud. “What you want from me, McCree? A life story?”

“Just think considering you know everything about me,” he said, “fair’d be if you stopped trying to be all mysterious-like.”

She blinked. “I don’t play fair.” Crossing her legs, she jabbed her cigarette into her empty glass, and flicked it over the bar.

“Well,” said Jesse, “Neither did I. Guess we have something in common.”

Smiling again, Sombra rested her chin in her hand. “Yeah. We’re both also, like, super good looking. Two things in common.”

The forwardness was offputting, and probably intentionally so. He wasn’t a stranger by to female attention by any stretch of the imagination, but Jesse knew Sombra was playing more games. “And you ain’t joining Blackwatch because you believe in it, after all. So far as I see it you gotta prove that you’ve got my back.”

Sombra’s expression changed in a way Jesse couldn’t read. “You’re assuming a lot.”

She picked up her belongings. “It’s okay, I’m too rough for a boy like you, anyway.”

“Now you’re the one doing the assuming,” he said, with far more suggestiveness than he intended. But, it was clear she wasn't giving up anything about herself - at least not what Jesse needed from her.

The girl laughed, and stood up. “Sorry McCree, you only get one chance to break my heart.” Blowing him a kiss, she nudged her stool away. “Gotta go,” she said, “See you in a few weeks.”

“A few weeks?” he said, “going somewhere in particular?” 

“Balkans,” said Sombra, lighting up another cigarette and walking away, “then Russia, then India. Recruiting some bad dudes, then going to go fuck up some badder dudes. _Adiós!_ ”

“Alright then,” said Jesse. Hardly the most stable of places in these times. He wanted to tell her to stay safe, but that’d be admitting concern or, at the very least, be patronising. “You be enjoying yourself, now” he eventually settled on. She just walked on, not even acknowledging him.

McCree faced away and tapped the bar for another scotch. He couldn’t be mad at that brat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm effectively garbage


End file.
